He was preoccupied and stressed to the gills. I decided not to ask because I knew the answer to, “Everything okay?” would just be, “Yeah.” So what’s the point? I knew he wouldn’t want to go to the party but I asked him anyway. His look confirmed what he felt but he said, “Sure. Sounds like fun.” It was a lie. He didn’t think any of it was going to be fun but he didn’t want me to go alone. I have a few theories on this. They’re not all good.
We laid in bed naked for a while. The sex was good and sadly the more stressed he is, the better the sex. I hate having sex with him when we’re on holiday. It’s slow and boring because he’s relaxed and happy. Shit. Am I pushing his buttons for better sex? That’s pretty sick on my part… or maybe it’s brilliant...?
We got to the party and he went straight for the bar. His routine was simple; bar, corner, phone. He would get a stiff drink, find a corner where he could see me and then fuck around on his phone for the rest of the night. I watched him sometimes, and he'd make expressions like what he was doing was really important and how he’s such a good man for being there with me in the midst of the chaos he was handling on his phone. Yeah, Candy Crush is a real bitch. Hey, maybe I should try to get him addicted to Pokemon Go so he'd at least walk around while staring at his fucking phone.
As usual, when we got home I complained that he didn’t even say hello to any of my friends. “What’s the point of going with me?” I asked for the hundredth time. What was the point? He gave me the usual, “I’m just being supportive.” crap and then we silently got undressed and into bed steaming mad. It wasn’t long before we start having sex. Good angry sex.
Sundays at my parent’s house when I was a kid was always fun. The Sunday Times was the center of our morning. Everyone would gather in the kitchen and help make a big breakfast and then we’d all pile into the living room until the once neatly folded paper was a chaotic mess. Sundays with him are quiet and neat. I don’t like quiet and neat. Not on Sundays. We walk to the same restaurant for breakfast, he reads the news on his phone and since the tables are so fucking small in that place, I have to read the Sunday Times on my iPad. It’s not the same and it makes me angry. I like the newspaper. I like the smell. I like the way the pages sound when I turn them. I like the reward of ink stains on my fingertips when I’m done. It’s real. Swiping on an iPad is not real.
After breakfast, we walk through the park. It’s one of the best parts of living in New York City. The crime, the painful odors, August and January – that all sucks. But somehow Central Park helps balance it all out. It’s like the city said, “Yeah, sometimes it feels like we live in a toilet, here’s a beautiful park to stroll around in.” It helps… a lot.
He hates spontaneity. I hate that he hates spontaneity. Sometimes I think about showing up at the airport, looking at the departures display at the Jet Blue terminal (I have a ton of miles), picking a place and getting on a plane. He hates spontaneity, so I try to be as spontaneous as possible at every given opportunity and it just irritates him and then we don’t talk, but then… the sex is good. Huh. I’m starting to see the emergence of a pattern here.